MELISSA CHAN
Our kitchen was red; or at least that’s how I remember it.
It is red in my memory because the table was red.
A loud fire-engine red, the table protruded from the wall, curved at the edges with cafe-style booths either side.
I used to sit on one edge of that booth, propped high in a plastic booster seat, watching her.
She was a creature of endless fascination to me; my mother, swirling seamlessly, from one part of the kitchen to the other.
I would watch her, as she cooked for us, intentional in every movement; fluid in every stir, in every sprinkle, in every lit flame.
Her knowledge was intuitive; water chestnuts for crunch, white pepper for heat; and soy, always soy, the foundation of every dish.
She would test for consistency, a taste here, a spoonful there; adjusting as she went along - a dash of cornflour mixed with water to thicken; a ladle of broth to diffuse.
I would watch her - endless grace and ease - confidently invoking those from before, who had concocted these creations in the past.
The boldness of her mother, my grandmother, for instance, could be tasted in the shallots and ginger, heated with oil and served with chicken, blanched white; her warmth in the runny tomato mixed with homely swirls of egg; her comfort in the simplicity of the white rice, rinsed until the starch ran clear, then tossed into a pot and left to boil.
I would watch her, absorbed in her flow, as she tied the two of us firmly to a thread, weaving us into her past - which was also my past - a glimpse into a culture that might otherwise have been left untapped.
We were Chinese, we were both born in Australia - and yet, our experiences differed wildly.
She grew up with two migrant parents who spoke mostly Chinese at home; who ran kitchens in RSL clubs across Sydney, with a father who fled China from Japanese occupation; and a mother of Chinese background, but who emigrated from the Solomon Islands to marry in Australia at the age of 17.
“WE WERE CHINESE, WE WERE BOTH BORN IN AUSTRALIA - AND YET, OUR EXPERIENCES DIFFERED WILDLY.”
I grew up in Sydney’s Eastern Suburbs, spoke mostly English at home; with parents in genteel professions; my father an architect and my mother a classical piano teacher.
She grew up conscious of her Chinese-ness, reminded every day by taunting schoolgirls of her difference, of her separateness - but still proudly wore a Chinese dress, an emerald green cheong-sum with gold embellishment, to her high school formal anyway.
I grew up conscious of my Chinese-ness, but tried to hide it in every possible moment - blending in as much as I could with my white friends, white teachers and white neighbours, minimising my ethnicity, wanting to be the same as everyone else.
She grew up watching her mother make the same dishes I watched her make, but she knew their steps; whereas I did not.
I grew up, holding my Chinese-ness at bay, as though it were an afterthought, an addendum to my life.
It was when my sister made plans to move abroad that it suddenly felt urgent to claim something for her, for us.
I wanted my sister to take some part of my family with her; for the times when she needed comfort, to feel us when we weren’t around.
It dawned on me that beyond the quiet moments in a New York apartment that my sister might find herself in; we both faced a day when there might be no one left to ask and a lifetime of unknowns to live.
And so, for the first time, I began to ask questions.
‘How do you make that? What is needed to make it come to life? Can you show me?’
It was the first time that I genuinely wanted to know, to understand the origins - the story - so that I could write it all down.
And so, my mother taught me, bit by bit, making the previously intangible, tangible.
Not one for measuring cups or exacting spoons, she had learnt by watching those before her, who cooked by feel, through touch and taste, texture and smell.
It meant that the recipes I wrote were indecipherable to the outsider:
‘Add water until it reaches the bottom line of your fourth finger; know the mince is ready by throwing it against the saucepan; use an electric frying pan to keep the egg smooth.’
These steps spoke to our family code, an initiation to the line that my mother had always held; to the knots she tied to us; waiting until we were ready to pull the thread close to our chest.
I watched my mother like I used to watch her all those years ago in the red kitchen, but this time I was standing not sitting, chopping not watching.
This time, I was finally wanting, fully participating - weaving us both into my future.
WHAT WE EAT IS MEANINGFUL
My mum used to make sago and red bean pudding as a winter dessert. Comforting coconut milk goodness combined with the pop of sago and the sweetness of red bean was a special occasion treat, usually rolled out at birthdays. I’ve never seen this in a restaurant - most sago dishes aren’t baked and are served cold!
DISH OF OUR HERITAGE
SAGO AND RED BEAN PUDDING